


boycott love (sing about tragedy)

by rosepaetals (angelinqs)



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 1940s AU, 40s AU, Big angst, Concentration Camps, M/M, Nazis, Ryden, agent!ryan, cred to fall out boy for the title, everyone’s an asshole, i did entirely too much research, i had to google 40s slang for this, inspired by the one video of b singing but it’s better if you do in that swing style, i’ll drop the link, jazz singer!brendon, jon is chaotic, spencer is just trying to chill everyone out, you know what I’m talking about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 15:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21017990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelinqs/pseuds/rosepaetals
Summary: Brendon Urie is a jazz singer in 1942. He performs nightly in clubs and small venues. Ryan Ross, a hard-to-please music agent, hasn’t had much success promoting his business. Many folks in the music industry dislike him due to his very specific idea of what music should sound like. When Brendon sings, he breaks all of those molds.





	boycott love (sing about tragedy)

**Author's Note:**

> full version of vid that inspired this: https://youtu.be/wbGSh09-FNU
> 
> shortened video version: https://youtu.be/UomCpM6pGKk
> 
> i don’t remember turning back into a ryden stannie, but i knew i had to. just for this fanfic, though. enjoy :) comments are always appreciated!

_“And isn’t this exactly where you like me? I’m exactly where you like me, you know. Prayin’ for love in a lap dance, and payin’ in naïveté, oh!”_

Brendon Urie’s silky voice falls over the crowd, mesmerizing the silent audience. He grasps the microphone and presses it to his lips, completely immersed in the music. He taps his toes to the rhythm. As he finishes his song, the audience erupts into cheers. They stand - of course they stand, they always stand. Brendon took a bow and smiled at the wide expanse of people in the cushiony, velvet covered chairs.

“Jesus Christ,” Brendon exhales when he reaches his dressing room. He collapses into the chair in front of the dirty mirror, pressing a cloth to his damp face. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he groans. A pale face glares back at him. Smooth dark hair, expertly styled into a pompadour fashion, had mostly drooped down. Strands hang loose across his forehead, weighed down by the sweat. Tired eyes held blackish-grey eye bags, which is understandable; he’d been playing shows all month, all around Nevada. He hadn’t noticed how big his home state was until he was city hopping on the nightly. His vocal cords were shot, and all he needed was a swig of something. And some damn silence. So, of course, an irrationally loud knocking is sourced from his thin-as-paper door.

“What?” he calls, hopefully sounding less exasperated than he feels. A buff security guard opens the door, followed closely by a thin brown-haired man. Around his neck is a special pass that Brendon had no idea existed. The guy has chestnut colored eyes and a nicely structured, sickeningly familiar face. Brendon sighs, already mentally prepared for this interaction. The security guard exits, hopefully stationed just outside in case Brendon has to make a quick escape.

The man holds out a hand for Brendon to shake. The singer plasters a poster smile onto his face and shakes his hand. This guy decides to make himself comfortable on the couch to his right. Brendon shoots him the most withering glare he can muster, but the guy can’t take a hint. Brendon leans back on his chair.

“Ryan Ross. It’s good to meet you, Brendon. I saw you, I wanted to talk to you about an offer-”

“I know who you are.” Brendon says with disdain, cutting the other off. “And I know what you do. You’re infamous in the music industry for picking singers up and dropping us when you get tired. You leave us jobless, creditless, with no respect.” He drops his chair back down onto four legs. “I’ve busted my keister to get where I am today, and I have no interest in throwing it away for you. The odds are in favor of you kicking me to the side right when I think I’m safe. In fact, you happened to do just that to a friend of mine. Brent Wilson? Remember him?” Brendon stood up, as did Ryan. “So you can go to hell.”

Ryan gives a tight smile, holding eye contact with the slightly shorter man. “Brendon, I swear, that’s all bum rap. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Bullshit,” Brendon almost laughs. “But let me know when you’ve reinvented yourself — then we can talk. Mike?”

The bodyguard steps up to Ryan, arms crossed. Ryan holds up his hands in resignation. “Alright, bud. Here’s my card if you change your mind.” He hands Brendon a small card with RYAN ROSS printed in professional font. Brendon stares Ryan directly in the face and drops the card directly into the trash can.

“Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Mike leads Ryan to the open doorway, a symphony of “change your mind!”s following him through the threshold.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed! this is just the little intro, but the chapters will become a lot longer with the plot becoming a lot thicker. thank you for reading & have a lovely day !


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